


Fit For A King

by CarminaVulcana



Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Baahubali - Freeform, Celebrations, Eid, Festivals, Gen, Orphans, good king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 11:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19106638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Amarendra Baahubali realized the depth of Mahishmati's diversity only during his pre-coronation tour with Katappa. What did he learn in Seelamanai? And how did he end up celebrating Eid at a stranger's house?





	Fit For A King

If he were not destined to be a king, he would have been an architect. Amarendra Baahubali’s love for mathematics, physics, and geometry was legendary. But even more than that, he was fascinated by the stories hidden in the arches and columns of stones that defined the origin of each structure in Mahishmati.

It was on Day 6 of his kingdom-wide tour, that he and Katappa arrived in Seelamanai. True to form, Baahubali took in the grandeur of the city with open-mouthed wonder. He had never seen a domed palace, or minarets. Nor had he seen such intricate inlay work set in marble.

“Mama, this is beautiful,” he remarked, unable to form a more articulate sentence.

“It is, isn’t it,” Katappa too was awestruck by the magnificence of what looked like a house of prayer.

“Isn’t this the city where the Persian traders live?” Baahubali asked. “They practice a different religion, right?”

“Yes, they are Muslim,” Katappa answered as he looked around. “But I don’t know very much about their beliefs. The city looks all decked up for some sort of festivities. See the strings of flowers outside every door, the embroidered draperies hanging on all the windows; and even the people are rather glamorously dressed.”

“What say we go and see what the celebrations are about?”

“Er… well, since you are going to be the king in a few short weeks, you should know everything there is to know about your kingdom. Time to learn about Seelamanai I guess.”

Baahubali and Katappa made their way to the central market of the city.

On their way, they saw the subtle differences in the language spoken by the people and the manner in which they presented and conducted themselves. Almost all the women wore colorful silk scarves on their heads and around their necks. They wore no makeup other than kohl around their eyes. But like all the other women in the other parts of Mahishmati, they wore gold bangles around their wrists, nose rings, anklets, and even toe rings. Their hands were decorated with henna paintings. The men too lined their eyes with kohl, but their clothing was plainer and made out of cotton. They also wore no jewelry.

Quite a few strangers smiled at them and greeted them. Their accent was different and Baahu could not place it either. They seemed to sense that he and Katappa were outsiders. Appropriately, they made an effort to use common Telugu greetings instead of the complicated Farsi and Arabic ones they were using with each other.

Baahu had never encountered the “fa” and “za” sounds during his education. It was strange to hear an entire language in which these sounds seemed to play such an important role.

While he mused about the peculiarities of this city’s culture, Katappa’s mind was in his nose and the delectable smells wafting their way from a sweetshop in the next lane.

“Mmmmm,” Katappa sighed appreciatively. “I think we should have breakfast. Mmmmm. I think I smell halva.”

“You do? Actually, I do too. I am hungry.”

“Then let’s go and eat please.”

Baahu smiled and nodded. They reached the sweetshop in less than a minute.

“Wow, you walk fast when you’re hungry.”

“Yes, but don’t ever ask me to run on an empty stomach.”

As expected, the scene at this shop was rather like the scene at any other sweetshop.

Children crowded around the display of the sweets while their fathers and mothers tried to grab the hyper-harried store owner’s attention.

_“A measure of Sheer Yakh, please.”_

_“Is the badam kolcha over? I need at least six.”_

_“I have been waiting for almost an hour. Where is the zelabiya?”_

_“Mother has asked for two bowls of Sheer Qurma. I have to go soon.”_

“I don’t see any halva,” Katappa murmured. “And I have no idea what these sweets are.”

“Well, they are sweets. That’s what matters.”

“And how do you plan to get some for us? Look at all these people trying to get the shopkeeper to listen to them. We don’t even know what we want.”

“Er….”

Fortunately, an older gentleman standing in front of them heard them. He turned around.

“Are you new around here?” he asked.

“We are new,” Baahubali answered. “This is my uncle. We are on our way to Mahishmati but we decided to stop here and rest for a few hours before going further. It is a rather long trip.”

The old man beamed at them.

“You couldn’t have picked a better time to come then. Today is the biggest festival of our city, Eid-ul-fitr. My name is Gul Mohammad. I would love it if you came with me to my house.”

“Oh no, thank you so much for offering but that would be too much trouble for you,” Baahubali said.

“What trouble? The whole point of Eid is to share our bounty with friends, family, and strangers. You have to come. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Katappa shared a meaningful look with his young companion. “Now you get to be king,” he seemed to say.

And Baahu was unable to refuse. “Since you insist, how can we say no.”

“Excellent. Now let me just get the bag of zelabiya my wife asked me to get.”

Baahubali and Katappa hung back and watched as their new friend Gul tried to push through the crowd.

“Oi, I have more guests at home too. I just need a bag of zelabiya. I even ordered it yesterday,” he all but shouted. However, his tone remained courteous and polite.

Finally, the tired shopkeeper handed him his goods.

“I swear this gets harder each year,” the vendor sighed as another customer asked for something else and one of the ladies struggled to count her coins.

“It is Eid,” Gul laughed. “This is the joy of festivals. What’s a celebration without some stress. Remember Amina’s wedding? This is a walk in the park compared to that.”

“Some things are constant across cultures,” Baahubali said as he observed this exchange. “I remember how crowded the markets back home get during Deepawali, Vijayadashmi, and the new year. Was the annual fair in your village anything like this, mama?”

“It was worse,” Katappa said fondly. “Here, only the sweetshop is crowded. Look, the people buying clothes and toys are not having such a hard time. Back in my village, all the shops were crowded on such days. And the children were the worst. They would sit on the ground and start screaming at the top of their lungs if their mother refused to buy them a toy they had taken fancy to.”

“Thank God I don’t have children then.”

“Oh, just you wait. The Rajmata will find you a princess to marry before our trip is over. Within the year, you will be married. And before you know it, you will be staying up nights with an infant.”

“Staying up nights? Why would I stay up nights? I can’t feed the baby. That’s the mother’s job.”

“Yeah but changing diapers? Walking the baby, burping him, singing him lullabies… all those duties will be yours.”

“I can’t say I look forward to it.”

Katappa was about to respond when Gul Mohammad returned. The bamboo basket in his hand was loaded down with goodies.

“That looks heavy, anna,” Baahu said. “Please let me carry it.”

“I can carry it. You are our guest. I can’t make you work.”

“Yes, you can. I am a young man who lifts weights for a living. I can’t let you carry that basket when I can do it much more easily than you. You have already done so much for us by inviting us to your house.”

“Here. Carry it then.” Gul was not exactly a spring chicken. If the tall, muscly stranger was so eager to carry the basket, he wasn’t about to say no.

“What are your names, by the way?” he asked after handing over his basket. “And you lift weights for a living? I don’t understand?”

“His name is Sivananda,” Katappa responded. “And I am his maternal uncle, Kananam. He works at the loading docks near the coast. His job is to shift huge, heavy boxes of spice, gems, and handicrafts with utmost care because they can be rather fragile. He lifts them up and loads them into ships.”

“Is that a lucrative business?” Gul asked. “My son is about 17 now. He has studied some, but he isn’t academically inclined. I want to arrange a match for him but before that, he needs to be engaged in a trade. Perhaps he could do the same work as you.”

“Is your son strong?”

“I don’t know if he is as strong as you appear to be, but he is hardworking.”

“Will we get to meet him?”

“Of course, he is home with his mother and sisters. You will get to meet all of them.”

Gul Mohammad lived a small, quiet neighborhood. His house was plain to look at, but the heavy, wooden door was covered in a fine woodcarving of flowers, leaves, peacocks, and squirrels.

His wife opened the door.

“You took so long to come back,” she said to her husband. “It is almost time for lunch. And we have less than two hours to go before the communal prayer service.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But look, I have two guests with me.”

“Oh,” she peered behind him and saw them. “Assalamau Alaikum,” she greeted them, her tone much softer than it had been mere moments ago. “Please come in.”

Baahubali and Katappa took off their slippers outside the door and followed Gul in.

“They are not from here,” he introduced them to his wife. “This is Anna Kananam. And this here, is his nephew, Sivananda. They were passing through Seelamanai. I asked them to stay with us today and celebrate Eid with us.”

Then he introduced her.  

“And as you might have guessed, this is my wife, Niloufer. My son Ahmad and my daughters Noura and Saira, are inside. Please come and wash your hands and feet. We will eat a light meal and then go to the mosque for prayers. You are welcome to come with us.”

“But we don’t know how to pray your way. We don’t want to be disrespectful or hurt anyone’s sentiments.”

“Do not worry. You can just sit there quietly while the rest of us pray. No one will say anything. In fact, they will be pleased that we have guests from outside this year.”

He led Baahubali and Katappa to a small outhouse behind his home.

“Here, please wash and freshen up. Food will be served in a few minutes.”

“Thank you so much,” Katappa said.

Baahubali folded the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and sat down to clean up.

“It is amazing how cool this water is even though the weather is rather warm,” he said as he splashed some on his face. “Ahhh… this is pure bliss.”

“These people are really nice,” Katappa said. “ Way nicer than many I know back home.”

“Would you just welcome a stranger into your house if you were him?”

“Well, the shastras do talk about ‘atithi devobhava,’ but who treats guests like Gods these days. I remember one time when I visited the home of my father’s sister. It was great for the first two days. On the third day, she actually said I had eaten all the rice in her house and she couldn’t feed us anymore.”

“And did you eat up all the rice in her house?”

“Of course not. How could I have. I was only eight.”

“Well, even 8-year-old children can have ravenous appetites. Remember the time Bhalla ate an entire platter of laddoos all by himself.”

“I suppose so, but no, I was nothing like the older Yuvaraj. I was a simple, respectful child. I did not eat all the rice in her home. She just wanted us to leave.”

“What do you think would happen if we finished all the food in Gul Mohammad’s house?”

“He will do the same thing as my aunt.”

“Really? You think so.”

“I know so.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You can test him if you like. But I know I will have the last laugh.”

“Okay, let’s make it a deal. If he acts as you think he will, I will give you six bags of rice to send to your aunt. But if he treats us with respect and love regardless, then you will go vegetarian for a week.”

“A whole week? No. that’s not possible. Besides, you didn’t ask me what I want if I win. I don’t want rice for my useless aunt. She is in her eighties now. I doubt she even remembers that incident.”

“Okay, what do you want if you win?”

“We will go to Kuntala from here and not to Madhara.”

“But Kuntala is not a part of the empire. How are we going to justify going there?”

“You will think of something.”

“Okay, And why do you want to go to Kuntala?”

“Because that is the only place in the entire country where they steam fish in lotus leaves.”

“Mama, do you ever think about anything but food?”

Katappa took a moment to seriously think before answering him.

“Not usually, no. But sometimes I do think about other things too—like battle. But that’s rare. Things have been peaceful lately, barring the trouble with the Kalakeya. That really wasn’t fun; and certainly nowhere close to the thought of sweets and fish and fruits.”

Baahu closed his eyes and sighed in resignation.

“You are a total nut,” he exclaimed. “But, I love you, mama.”

“Wha… aww. I love you too Baahu.”

The two men quickly completed their ablutions and came back inside.

Niloufer akka had already laid out the food on the dastarkhwaan. Steaming bowls of cilantro shorba, curried chickpeas, fried okra, mint yogurt, and fresh oranges sat around a large platter of some kind of fragrant rice dish with chunks of roasted meat in it.

“What… is… that?” Katappa asked, his eyes wide as saucers. His nose twitched in anticipation.

Noura, Gul’s older daughter looked up and grinned at the expression on the old man’s face.

“This is biriyani,” she explained. “We make it every Eid.”

“But what is it?” Baahu asked.

“It is rice,” Noura said, a little confused at the obtuseness of the two guests. Were they slow? Or blind? Or both? Could they not see the grains of rice?

“You can see it, right,” she ventured carefully. “It is rice. I mean, it even looks like rice. Does it not? Does rice look different where you come from?”

Baahubali laughed.

“I am so sorry for not phrasing my question properly,” he apologised to his young hostess. “We can see it is rice. But what kind of rice? You told us it is called biriyani. What I meant was how is it different from Puliodarai or other rice recipes. What is special about this?”

“Oh okay, now I get it,” Noura exclaimed, rather sheepishly; because of course, that was what they were asking. she was the obtuse one here! 

In a bid to prove that she wasn't usually this daft, she tried to give a detailed explanation to the guest's question. 

“So, this is a traditional food from our grandfather’s home in Persia. We cook the rice and meat in butter with lots of onions and spices over a slow fire. That’s what makes it so special and festive.”

“It looks wonderful.”

“It tastes even better.”

“Will you ask them to sit as well or do you intend to satisfy them just with your incessant chatter?” Gul Mohammad walked in with banana leaves for everyone.

“No, abba,” Noura said. “My chatter alone won’t do it. Saira too must join in.”

A few minutes later, Ahmad also came.

The family and their guests sat down to eat.

Neither Baahu nor Katappa had ever eaten this kind of food. The spicy, creamy flavors of the biriyani played such tricks on their palate that they couldn’t help but ask for seconds. However, while Baahu remembered their deal, and he could have easily eaten a third or even a fourth helping, he chose not to when Saira told her mother to keep some of the biriyani for the evening as well. After all, the family got to eat such a feast only once or twice a year.

Unsurprisingly, when Baahu folded away his banana leaf so soon, Katappa looked at him worriedly.

“What about our deal?” he whispered furiously.

“I concede defeat,” Baahu whispered back.

“Coward.”

“Whatever.”

Niloufer then brought out bowls of sewain for everyone. These were sweet rice noodles with cold milk, crushed nuts, and rose petals.

“Your food is fit for a king,” Baahubali remarked as he spooned up the last few drops of the milk at the bottom of his bowl.

“Is it?” Gul said. “Well, so say you but you are no king so how would you know if this is what kings would eat.”

Katappa almost choked when he heard this. He coughed in order to clear his airway and Baahu thumped him on the back. A few drops of milk dribbled out of his nostrils.

“Eeeew,” Saira wrinkled her nose. “How gross.”

“Shhhh.” Their mother admonished them and offered Katappa a glass of water.

“Don’t laugh while eating,” Baahu said to him with apparent seriousness but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable.

Katappa’s only response was a disgruntled grunt.

“Okay, now let us go,” Gul announced. “It won’t take us too long to pray. After that we can all go to the Eid fair.”

“Really father?” Saira asked?

“Yes.”

“Yay! So will I get new bangles today?”

“You got new bangles last year also,” Noura groaned.

“Yeah but they aren’t new anymore. Plus, they are blue. And blue doesn’t go with everything. This time I will get red ones.”

“What will you get, Ahmad?” Baahubali asked the boy.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Why? You don’t want a new toy or new clothes?”

“I am too old for toys and my mother sewed new clothes for all of us. Why do I need to buy anything?”

Before Baahu could respond, Niloufer came out with caps for both, him and his ‘uncle.’

“You will need these at the mosque even if you are not praying.”

They locked the house and left.

By this time, many people were out and about on the street. It was post-lunch and children were gathering in the square for the opening of the fair.

They walked past the square and towards the grand mosque right outside the market.

The ladies parted ways with them at this point to go and pray in the women’s section where men were not allowed.

Gul and Ahmad sat at the edge of the washing area and showed their guests how to perform ‘wudhu,’ or ritual cleansing which was required for everyone entering the sanctum sanctorum of the masjid. While they washed, several fathers with small sons also came. A young man in a grey skullcap performed wudhu for his infant son.

A few minutes later, the muezzin made the call for prayer.

The lyrical, melodic minor scale and the words were completely alien to Baahubali and Katappa. But they felt uplifting and powerful.

“It feels like waves lapping against a shore,” the older man said. “I have never heard something I didn’t understand but which affected me so deeply.”

After that, the men stood together to pray while the two guests from Mahishmati watched respectfully from a distance.

Some people were curious about them. The children stole quick glances at them while the adults tried to get them to focus on the words of the Imam.

But Baahu was enthralled by something else. He did not see the impish grins of the children nor the way some of them looked at him with almost open suspicion.

He watched the men praying, mesmerized by the spectacle of hundreds of heads bowing at the same time. Hands went up in salutation in unison. And blessings were whispered to neighbors on either side.

“Mama, why did we never learn about these people and their culture in the gurukulam?” he asked, surprised that this was the first time he was encountering the Persians and their unique religion.

Katappa did not have an answer for him.

Moments after the prayers were done, the congregation broke up into much smaller groups as people exchanged pleasantries, season’s greetings, and gossip from the other streets of the town.

“Now we can go to the fair,” Gul came back with Ahmad and took off his skullcap. “I am sure Niloufer and the girls are already waiting for us outside.

As he had expected, his wife and daughters met them at the gates of the mosque.

By the time they reached the fair, it was bustling with activity.

Kebabs were being skewered and roasted on a coal fire at one stall. Another vendor sold chilled milk with saffron and rose syrup in it. Further away, a jewelry seller was showing off his wares to the ladies. Men and boys played gulli-danda in another corner. Jubilation filled the air with happiness.

“Father, we are going to see the puppet show,” the girls said and ran off. Seconds later, Noura returned. “I forgot to take money.” Gul smiled and pressed a few coins into her waiting palm.

“Don’t spend it all of the puppet show,” he called after her. “Do eat something as well. And don’t forget to buy the red bangles for your sister.”

“Father, I see my friends from the madrasa near the utensil stall,” Ahmad said as his sisters disappeared into the crowd. “I will meet you back here in an hour.”

That just left the adults.

“Did you bring the zelabiya?” Niloufer asked Gul.

“Yes. Here it is,” he answered and gave her a brown bag filled with 30 pieces of the sweet, orange spirals. Then he turned to his guests. “The festivities and formalities of this day are done. Now we go and celebrate the spirit of Eid. Would you like to come along?”

“We would love to,” Baahubali answered.

A few hundred meters away from the fair ground, a large group of children sat waiting for the city-dwellers to bring Eid to their slum.

With thin, sallow faces, sunken eyes, brittle hair, and dirt-crusted feet, it was hard to not feel sorry for them. These were newly arrived orphans from the nearby drought-struck areas who had not found a place in Seelamanai’s otherwise thriving society.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault as such. But the lawless situation of Singhapuram had forced several families to flee with nothing but the clothes on their back. The famine and drought in Kandala, Perikamul, and Doria had aggravated the refugee crisis.

To make matters worse, the perilous journey to safety had rendered many of these kids orphans. Even in families where the parents had somehow managed to survive, there was deprivation, despair, and the ever present shadow of death by disease.

Unfortunately, even in the various towns and cities of prosperous Mahishmati, these poor refugees had had little to no luck.

These were the children for whom Gul Mohammad had bought the Zelabiya.

As soon as they saw him coming, they stood up and almost unconsciously, some of them smiled gratefully—because they knew what he had in his bag. He had good things for them to eat. Why else would he come to them on a day as joyous as this?

Baahubali, Katappa, and Niloufer stood back as Gul knelt down on the ground. The children surrounded him, and he handed a piece of zelabiya to each child. All too soon, the sweets were over. A few feet away, almost 30 more children stood waiting patiently, hopeful that it would be their turn next to receive sweets.

But Gul’s bag was empty.

There were no more sweets.

Baahubali watched the heartbreak and sorrow on his host’s face as he readied himself to shatter the hope on those eager, innocent faces.

Would he let gentle, sensitive Gul go through such emotional torment when he had the means to stop it?

Could he let this happen? Did he not have enough to create an entire banquet for these children and all the others in the slum?

 “Anna,” he called out. “Before you distribute the rest of the sweets, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Gul turned around. He didn’t know what to say. His guest knew there were no more sweets in the bag. What on earth was he talking about? Or was this some kind of a cheap thrill for him?

No, something in Sivananda’s eyes told him otherwise. He came close to him and asked, “what is it?”

“Why don’t we get more sweets for the children?”

“I have no more money. I gave the last of my coins to my daughters. And I didn’t realize there would be more kids here this time. Last year, there were only twenty. Today, there are 60. Had I known, I would have not bought meat for my family nor would I have brought them to the fair.”

“I have the money,” Baahu said and offered him his money pouch. In it, there were six pieces of gold and almost 3,000 rupiahs worth of currency coins. “Please take it.”

“This is too much money,” Gul said and thrust the pouch back at him. “I can’t.”

“Come on,” Baahubali insisted. “What else is the money for? In fact, use it to buy not only zelabiya for these kids but also plates of biriyani for all of them and everyone else in the slum.”

 “Yes, but I don’t need so much. 75 rupiahs will be enough. I can’t accept a coin more.”

“Okay, okay,” the younger man acquiesced. “Here. 75 rupiahs.”

“You are very kind, Sivananda. God will bless you for this.”

“No one should go hungry on the day of a festival.”

“People do charity on Eid,” Gul clarified. “But it is never enough. Too many people need help. And nobody here is rich enough to take on such a significant burden for an extended period of time.”

“I understand,” Baahu nodded. “But right now, let us just do this.”

Gul quickly went and asked one of the sweet vendors to arrange for more zelabiya for the children. Then, he went to the kebab stall and asked the cook to prepare 100 kilos of biriyani for all the inhabitants of the slum.

The zelabiya came within minutes. The biriyani would take until evening.

Gul took the bag of sweets and held it out for Baahu.

“You do this,” he said with a smile.

But Baahu had a better idea.

“Why don’t you ask your wife to do it. Blessings given by a mother are always sweeter.”

There was so much truth and reverence in that sentence that Gul had to agree.

Niloufer distributed the sweets to the children and some of them couldn’t help but cling to her fingers. She ruffled the hair of the younger ones and by the time she was done, her eyes were moist.

“I wish I could adopt all of them,” she said as a little girl with messy pigtails jumped up and hugged her.

“Maybe you can,” Baahu smiled and set his money pouch at her feet. “Here, keep the rest of this too. Please use it to build a home for them where they would always be welcome and safe. Consider it my offering. I was born an orphan but my aunt who raised me, has been my mother all these years. I would be no one without her. I see her in you. You will be mother to these kids just as my aunt was to me.”

“But… I,” she looked at her husband. “I… please, this is your money,” she tried to sound strong. But her heart wanted to accept the money and use it for the children. However, she knew her husband would never allow it.

Baahubali understood her dilemma.

“This is a present from your new king,” he said calmly. “And if ever you need anything, knock on the doors of the Mahishmati palace. I will always be there for you, ready to serve in any way I can.”

Gul Mohammad was a simple man, but he was not stupid. His mouth hung open as he processed Sivananda’s words.

“So… you… you are Amarendra Baahubali?” his voice sounded faint with amazement. “You are the new king?”

“I am,” Baahubali answered. “But for you, I will always be Sivananda.”

“We… we are so sorry we did not recognize you. You dined at our humble home. What an honor. Oh, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Relax, Anna,” Baahu shook his head fondly. “There is no need to worry. I enjoyed your hospitality very much. I have learned so much from you. This visit to Seelamanai and the time I spent with your family will always remain very close to my heart.”

“We must leave now,” Katappa nudged Baahu. He hated to interrupt such an important conversation but he had no choice. “It will soon get dark. We should resume our journey while it is still daylight.”

Gul and his wife watched in awe as their guests, the king and his aide, bid them farewell and walked out of the fair grounds.

They had only ever heard of this man’s greatness and his goodness. But now that they had seen him, they knew he was all of that and more.

“Grandfather did the right thing by coming here after leaving Persia,” Gul said to Niloufer later that night as they lay in bed. “We are lucky to live in a country where kings behave like angels.”

** Epilogue **

He took out 150 rupiahs for the occasion. The pouch looked more ragged than it had last year. The red embroidered lettering around its neck was now so tattered that no one could tell who it had once belonged to; except for him.

150 rupiahs was a lot of money and his hands trembled as he took out such a large amount, praying that a miracle would keep them afloat through the cruel ways of the current king. Day by day, the load on his little sanctuary was increasing. The prices of essential goods were constantly rising, and the taxes seemed to get steeper every year.

That was why he never spent money on unnecessary things if he could help it. But some days were special. And Eid was the most special day of the year—not only because of its religious significance, but also because it was a reminder of an unlikely friendship that now lived only in his memories.

A pang of longing and grief hit him as he paid the cook for the 200 kilos of biriyani that would be distributed among the children.

He would break down later in private; like he did every year. For the moment, he would try and see his old friend in the satisfied faces of the children. And perhaps, somewhere, his soul would shower blessings of peace and strength upon them to get through another year as they waited for their long lost savior. 

Only two people in the vast stretches of Mahishmati held on to the hope of Mahendra Baahubali’s return.

One was Maharani Devasena, his mother and the imprisoned widow of Amarendra Baahubali. The other was Gul Mohammad, the old manager of Seelamanai’s only orphanage.


End file.
